Laughing, I call it "...a lame-ass game."
As we get into the comfortable groove of playing Words With Friends and hanging, I decide to bring up Rose.
"John," I start, looking at him while he decides what letters to play, "I was thinking of finding Rose."
He looks up at me, surprised. "Finding?"
"I found out she's in some mental ward in some hospital."
"Mental ward?" With his rubber-tipped stick, he lowers the iPad tray. "Why? What hap..." He stops. It registers. "She can't make jokes."
I shake my head and put down my phone. "No joking."
"She must be really depressed."
Nodding, I agree.
"Then find her."
"Find her?"
"She needs to laugh. Make her laugh, Ben."
"Make her laugh? I'm not that funny."
Johnny cracks up. "Then joke about me. Find something funny to talk to her about."
"Funny? You think joking about your situation is funny?"
"Isn't it? Isn't it hilarious that at seventeen, I'm less active than my ninety-two-year-old great-grandmother? That's funny shit, Ben. If you consider cruel irony hilarious." Though his shoulders can't shrug, his eyes do. "What can you do?"
"Is this...all bullshit, John? You can't really be okay with this, are you?"
He looks at me.
Stares at me.
"I'm sorry for being so blunt, I just don't get it."
He finally speaks. "What choice do I have? If I let it get to me, what happens? I end up in a mental ward like that pretty little girl of yours? Shit, I can't even kill myself to escape this."
His eyes start to tear.
My heart starts to break.
"I'm stuck like this with no choice, Ben. So...for my mom's sake, I laugh."
I nod, sadly understanding a little better.
"I'm all she has. Besides her gram. So...I'm gonna be the next Stephen Hawking and make enough money to pay for people to help her. Since I can't."
"Well...you do have a high IQ, right?"
"Damn straight. 156."
"Impressive. And you're still in high school?"
"Mom didn't want me to lose out on a real childhood. I'm in all AP classes though, so...I'm still ahead when I start college."
"Cool."
"If I don't get pneumonia again and die."
"Dude."
"I came close. That's why I couldn't go back to rehab yet. It's gonna take a lot to get my immune system up."
"Shit."
"Yeah." He picks up his straw with his mouth and elevates his iPad. "Let's get back to the game."
We get back to Words With Friends, but my thoughts are swirling all over the place.
Will Johnny really be okay?
Will Rose?
Do I go find her?
Or do I let her be?
In the end, I let her be – for now.
17
ROSE
Returning to the normal world isn't as easy as I thought it would be. Not that hanging home all day is considered normal for a girl my age. I should be studying or partying or enjoying life in my twenties, I'm told. But I haven't found my bearings yet.
While in the mental ward of the hospital, I did get my breaks to work on my physical disability and I did get fitted for my permanent artificial leg, which I'm wearing right now. It's not as robotic as my metal paper towel holder, so it's prettier to look at. Relatively. It's still not the real thing. But at least I can wear my own shoes with it, and it looks like a real leg. And oh yeah, they fit me for a second leg too. A leg to use when I, believe it or not, dance. That leg's really robotic looking, but it's supposed to be highly effective for dancing. And it does have a petite foot, so it still fits in a ballet shoe.
I know what you're thinking - "You can still dance?"
It turns out, yes, I can. But I haven't tried it yet.
My new therapist, the one for my brain, not my leg, allowed me to go online during some of my sessions and research dancers with amputated legs. During one of my early sessions, Denise asked me what I planned to do about dancing. I looked at her like she was the one who'd lost her mind.
"Was that not an appropriate question to ask?" she said in response, as if she couldn't see I only had one functioning leg.
My inclination was to keep staring, but my stomach rumbled with the urge to release a scream. So without raising my voice, I sarcastically pointed out that, "I seem to be missing an essential instrument for dancing."
"I beg to differ."
"How's that?"
"You're a dancer. You don't watch Dancing with the Stars?"
I rolled my eyes. Amy Purdy. Holly had brought her up the last time I saw her. "On occasion."
"Have you ever heard of Amy Purdy?"
"Vaguely."
"She was a double amputee. That didn't stop her."
I let that sink in.
"And...I've gone poking around the Internet. There are others."
Really?
"I don't think this is the end of your dancing career, Rose. I believe it's the beginning. A new start...a new challenge. Are you up for the task?"
Was I?
***
After that session, Denise and I spent a lot of time researching dancers with disabilities, and we found that there are actually academies that specialize in dancers with disabilities, including them with their non-disabled dancers.
***
So I'm home now.
It's Halloween.
And I still have disparaging thoughts about myself.
One of them being how fitting this holiday is for a one-legged Skellington like me. I don't answer the door for trick-or-treaters. My mother or sisters do that. I stay in my room and read. And answer Holly's texts every now and then.
My mother presented me with a smart phone as a welcome-home gift. She must have told Holly I had a phone again, because all day long she's been texting me. Most of them about how hot Ben Falco is and how he'd be perfect for me. I don't encourage her by agreeing, because I really don't want to talk about him. She can be relentless though. The texts have slowed up tonight, though, because the bar is probably slammed with customers. Part of me wishes I were there. I miss my old life.
It's about eight forty at night when I get a text from an unfamiliar number.
TEXT: Hi, Rose. Thinking about you. Hope everything's cool. *Ben
Ben?
Holly must have given him my number. My mother doesn't even know he exists. I don't think she was paying much attention the day she came into Orange, and we were sitting together.
Do I respond?
I don't know.
I toss the phone onto the bed and open my book, not knowing what to say to him right now. The words on the page of Gone Girl run together in one long fuzzy train of letters. Putting it aside, I pick up my phone and stare at Ben's text.
After several long minutes, I text back.
ME: Hi.
I know. Lame. But...Is everything cool? Not really. Did I want to say, "Thanks for thinking of me?" No.
So...Hi. That's the best I can think of. Maybe I suffered more brain damage than they think.
Right away, I get a text back.
BEN: Hi. :) I'd like to see you soon. Going stir crazy in the house. My mother's driving me nuts.
ME: Oh.
So lame. So lame. So lame.
BEN: Can I visit?
Shit.
I guess I don't text him quickly enough, because I get another ding.
BEN: No pressure. I'll use my imagination to remember your face.
ME: Please don't.
Uh oh. He could take that the wrong way.
BEN: You don't want me to visit?
ME: I don't want you to remember my face.
BEN: It's a beautiful face.
ME: It's a scarred face.
BEN: Scars are beautiful. Especially on you.
ME: I look like Jack Skellington.
BEN: You have a broken mirror. You look like a
princess.
ME: Thank you.
BEN: You're welcome.
A few minutes go by and I think we're done texting, so I pick up Gone Girl but keep the phone next to me. “My throat was clenching and unclenching like a heart,” is all I keep reading. I can't get to the next sentence, because I'm hoping so much that Ben texts back. Maybe I should just text him and say, "You can come up."
Fortunately, I don't have to make such a ridiculously easy decision that I'm nearly incapable of making, since my phone dings again, and it's Ben.
BEN: So. Is tomorrow good?
ME: To visit?
BEN: No. To fly to Naples.
ME: lol. Naples? Did you just tell me to go to hell?
BEN: What? No. Why?
ME: Doesn't Finabala or something like that mean go to hell?
BEN: lol. It means go to Naples, yes, which essentially means go to hell. But that is NOT what I said AT ALL. BTW, you know Italian?
ME: Just some bad words.
BEN: I don't believe that. Then again, you are friends with Holly.
ME: Who do you think taught them to me?
BEN: Ah. Anyway, can I visit YOU tomorrow?
ME: Do you know where I live?
BEN: I was hoping you would tell me.
ME: Ok.
BEN: Thank you. Is noon okay?
ME: Yeah. Noon is good.
BEN: Good. Now I just need your address.
ME: 83 Brown Road
BEN: Great. I'll GPS it.
ME: Good luck. It's in the boondocks.
BEN: 83 Brown Road, Boondocks. Got it. ;)
ME: lol
BEN: Goodnight, pretty lady.
ME: Goodnight, Ben.
I set my phone aside, lie down on my pillow, and smile at the ceiling.
Ben wants to see me.
Ben knows what I look like, and he still wants to see me.
I can't keep myself from feeling warm inside, and I fall asleep, for the first time since early June, with a smile on my face.
***
I'm a shattered mess this morning. Everything in my closet is too big, which makes me look even frumpier than I am now, and I can't get my hair to do what I want. My sister Beth is lying on her stomach on my bed, and she's cracking up while I have an adolescent nervous breakdown.
"Calm down, Rose. He obviously already likes you, so don't try so hard."
"Easy for you to say...you don't have a hideous zipper covering the left side of your face."
"Rose. He's seen your scar. Yet he's still coming. He saw you at your worst. Something tells me that you could be wearing a potato sack and have no hair, and he'd still come."
"Right."
"Rose, wear your jeans and your ivory American Eagle sweater. You look nice in ivory."
My stomach hurts. How do I make myself look halfway normal?
"And wear those cute red cowboy boots you have."
"My boots?" I look at her like she's crazy. "I've only ever worn sneakers with this thing."
"They fit the foot to your size, right?"
"Yeah, but those boots were tight to begin with. I don't know if I'd feel comfortable walking in them."
My sister bites her lip and gives me one of those, "I'm sorry" head-tilts. "The sneakers will look cute, too," she says, the sound of her voice indicating she feels bad for bringing it up. "I'm sorry, Rose."
Pulling the sweater out of my antique dresser, I tell her not to worry about it. Then, when I turn and face her, I whip the sweater at her leg. "Get out now. I need to get dressed."
Beth sighs, disappointed at the change. Before my accident, my sisters and I always dressed in front of each other. If one of us was taking a shower and the other had to use the bathroom, we'd just walk in on each other. But now...Mom told them they need to respect my privacy and not walk in on me. I'm just not ready for anyone to see my leg. I can barely look at it myself.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, my chest pounds, and my stomach ties into knots. I try really hard to keep from crying, but I scream for Beth instead.
She comes running into my room, hysterical. "What? What's the matter?"
"My face." I'm holding my face with my fingers, wishing that I could wake up from this pathetic nightmare.
Beth looks at me through the mirror, her hands on my shoulder, and says, "Your face is beautiful, Rose."
"Stop lying. I need you to cover this."
"I'm not lying." She leaves my room and comes back a minute later, holding her makeup pouch and the chair from her room.
She pulls her seat up next to mine, places the makeup pouch down on my vanity, and rummages through it. "I'm not gonna cover it too well, cause that'll just look phony, and he already knows you have the scar."
"So what're you gonna do?"
"I'm gonna lessen it. Take the red out. Downplay it."
"Just make me look like I'm not wearing a Halloween costume."
She slips her fingers through some strands of my hair. "It's not as bad as you're making it out to be, Rose. It really isn't."
Her fingers tap lightly on my cheek as she spreads concealer along my scar.
"Now I'm going to put a light foundation over your whole face to blend it all in."
"Will it be noticeable?"
"The scar or the makeup?"
"Both."
She laughs. "Neither will be," she assures me as she pats loose powder on my cheeks, chin, forehead, and nose.
"Now what're you doing?" I ask as she comes at me with a pencil.
"I just wanna line your eyes."
I back away. "Please don't. I just want the scar covered."
"Okay. But let me do your hair."
"Nothing fancy."
Beth stands, grabs my brush, and runs it through my hair. When she's finished, it's hanging long with a few strands pulled back, hippie-style, and secured in the back with a small butterfly clip.
"You look beautiful, Rose," my sister says from behind me now, staring into the mirror with me.
My hand naturally reaches for the scar, and instead of seeing an ugly red zipper, a flesh-colored scratch sits in its place. "Wow."
"Looks good, right? Now stop touching."
"What if it...comes off?"
"There's not that much on, Rose. Your scar is not that bad. It didn't need much."
"But..."
"It's not going to come off," she reassures me. "Now come on. I heard a car pull up."
Oh my God. "Oh my God," I breathe out loud.
"Rose. It's not like you haven't had boys come over. Come on. Nothing's changed."
Everything's changed.
18
BEN
My fingers were tapping about ninety-five miles per hour on my thighs while I waited for the door to open. I'm usually an extremely calm guy. Not much gets me flustered. But today? Forget it. You can power a whole baseball stadium with the nervous energy I'm putting out.
A blonde girl about Rose's age answers the door. "Hello," she says, smiling. "You must be Ben." My hands continue to drum my thighs, so I force them into my front pockets.
"I am."
Without hesitation, she yells, "Rose," but as she turns to yell again, Rose and another blonde are already walking down the stairs.
"We heard you, Patti," the other blonde says.
"Hi." Rose's smile is soft. Tentative. Unsure. I get the feeling she's as nervous as I am.
"Hi."
"Thanks," Rose says to her sisters, and motions, with the tilt of her head, for them to leave.
"Nice meeting you, Ben." The first blonde closes the door behind me.
"Likewise." I smile, but turn my attention to Rose. "You. Look. Amazing." I pull my hands out of my pockets to give her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.
"Thank you." Her voice is still as soft as I remember, but she doesn't seem as sad.
"Sit." There are two ivory couches and an old rocking chair in the front room. Rose sits on the rocking chair.
So I sit on the cou
ch closest to her, even though I was hoping she'd choose one of the couches to sit on. I'm guessing it wasn't by accident that she chose the single chair to sit on.
"So," she starts, fiddling with her fingers while her hand sits on her lap.
"So...you have a great house. I mean...is that all your property out there?" Lame-ass thing to talk about, but I'm not sure where to start.
"Uh. Yeah. Most of it. From the front of the drive all the way...it's about five acres."
"Wow."
"My dad's a farmer. He's got animals all over the place." She nods. "Anyway, you're not back in school yet, right?"
"No, no." I shift on the couch and lean back, attempting to appear comfortable. "January. Knee's still healing. I am getting bored though."
"Yeah." She sighs and leans back in her chair too. "Me too."
"Yeah? You goin' back in January?"
"No." Her answer is quick. Definite.
"Maybe next fall?"
"Maybe." With the toe of her sneakers, she pushes off the floor to rock her chair.
"So...how is...everything? Are you still doing PT?"
She nods. "Yeah. It's okay. I go three times a week. What about you?"
"Same. But I might give PT a rest soon. Over winter break, I'm going to Florida with the team. Hopefully I'll be cleared to play by then."
"Oh. Good for you." She looks down at her lap for several seconds. When she looks back at me, she says, "I'm sorry. I'm not usually this...awkward." She shakes her head and sucks in her lips. Then..."I think they're lying when they tell me I didn't suffer any brain damage." She chuckles. "It's like I've forgotten how to be human." She stands up, quite nimbly, and smiles. "Can I get you a drink or something, or...does your knee hurt to walk? We can take a walk around the farm."
Reaching Rose (Hunter Hill University Book 3) Page 9